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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29424018">The Magic of Applied Force</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections'>Whreflections</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>BDSM, Dom Stiles Stilinski, Edging, Knotting, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Magic and Science, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sex Magic, Spanking, Sub Chris Argent, Sub Peter Hale, Werewolf Mates</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:56:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,648</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29424018</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles isn't exactly subtle about any aspect of his life- that means that he isn't just the town mage, he's the town mage with his "alternative lifestyle" on full display.  His husbands wear collars; it can't really be missed- and he's perfectly okay with that.  If his customers are going to be benefitting from the efforts of his boys for certain spells, they might as well know he's not the only one putting in the work.  </p><p>This particular spell is going to take a lot of work.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>192</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Steter Discord Valentine's Exchange 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Magic of Applied Force</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanessaWolfie/gifts">VanessaWolfie</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>asdlfj;k I have no idea how to feel about this, but it's finished and getting posted XD</p><p>This is my first time writing Dom Stiles, but I was intrigued by the thought and it was one of the prompts, so I had to try it- and I wanted to work in magic Stiles for you, too.  I hope you enjoy, Nessa!  :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a truth not often enough acknowledged, in Stiles opinion, that you really could live off comic book principles if you knew how to actually apply them—because sure, great power was a great responsibility, but that metaphor stretched further than that if you really dug into it.  Great force required an equally great force—either to bolster it or push against it.  Arguably, that was physics, too, but Stiles had always loved fandom more than science.  He’d needed both to get him through college, no matter what his professors might have said. </p><p>However you looked at it, force was important—and origin was important, both in that it mattered, and that it didn’t.  As a case in point, Stiles had argued in a memorable Philosophy of Magic essay that two people could tattoo <em>what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger</em> on their wrists as a focal point of their own restorative magic, credit it to Nietzsche and Kelly Clarkson respectively, and both be correct.  The difference both mattered and didn’t—each source would mean something to the one who used it as fuel for their own personal reserves; each source would say something about the mage in question. </p><p>Professor Carrigan had given him an A, and said he’d given her a migraine. </p><p>Once he’d become a practicing mage, his theories on origins, power, and substitutions hadn’t just been theories anymore; he’d had the chance to put them into practice.  So far, he’d had nothing but success—which surprised him not at all, and probably would have surprised magical purists substantially.  If he was the journal article writing type, he probably could have shaken up a few academics, but that wasn’t his area, really.  He was far more interested in practical magic, building a business with enough far-reaching clientele that he could run it for the rest of his life.  Hell, who knew what the future held; maybe he’d even pass it down. </p><p>The first time he’d sat down to tackle a rewrite of a spell that required human sacrifice, he’d paced the attic for three days before the thought came to him, so fitting he was sure of its perfection before he’d even tried it for the first time—for what was sacrifice but a gift, and a loss, and what was submission but a gift of self, and a loss of control?</p><p>When it worked, when the gun he’d imbued had become just as full of resurrection magic as he’d intended, Stiles hadn’t been able to keep from making sure Peter was visible, working wood outside under the sun. </p><p>His collar was visible, too, supple black leather, with the hanging garnet Stiles had blessed for him twinkling as he moved.  He was focused, and beautiful, and Stiles couldn’t stop himself from winking at Parrish after he’d paid up.  “Make sure to thank Peter on your way out, too.  You wouldn’t have it without him.  Hell of a sacrifice.”</p><p>Jordan’s cheeks were red, sure, but it was worth it, and he wasn’t ashamed—and his dad wasn’t either, no matter what he grumbled.  There were a lot worse ways your kid could be known than as the eccentric mage with two husbands and a very visible BDSM lifestyle—a mage whose commissions were booked up months in advance. </p><p>Still, he hadn’t been surprised when his dad had called.  “Did you have to tell him how you did it?”</p><p>“I mean, to be fair, dad,”  Stiles said, his eyes on his boys in the kitchen.  They moved around each other with near choreographed ease.  “I didn’t actually tell him how I did it.  I can, if he asks, but I thought that might be a little too much—”</p><p>Eventually, he was going to have to find a way to bottle his father’s fond frustration.  No doubt about it, it’d have enough force to form the root of a formidable spell. </p><p>******</p><p>To craft the bracer that would eventually be called Eyes in the Dark, it took Stiles two months just to find the right spell.  Once he had, he’d called up Satomi, just to make sure that yes, she did still need an item that would ensure she would always eventually catch whatever she started to track—and yes, she was still willing to pay substantially for it, no matter how long it took. </p><p>It only took a day of tweaks for Stiles to have a formula laid out that he trusted, and that he could sit with.  No spell that required him to raise a sacrifice, release them, and slit their throat over their own prey in the woods, spilling it over a patch of fresh moss was ever going to be one he could complete—but the point of it all was in the capture of something significant, a hunter tamed.  The release of blood; the sacrifice of something special; the intricate dance of hunter and hunted. </p><p>He had two hunters of different shades in the palms of his hands already.  There was far more than one way to hunt. </p><p>The day he finished rewriting the spell, Stiles fucked both of them, doting on them with a long session until Chris had come twice, and Peter three times.  He didn’t tell them then, sleepy and warm and sated. </p><p>He waited until breakfast. </p><p>It was 4 AM; it could have just as easily been dinner.  They’d all be going back to bed afterward.  There was a delightful quiet haze to eating hashbrowns and bacon together in the dark at the kitchen island, one of Stiles’ own galaxy spells swirling on the kitchen ceiling while they ate in relatively peaceful silence. </p><p>After a sip of his chocolate milk, Stiles settled his glass down a little more firmly. </p><p>“Safewords, please.”</p><p>A better man might not have enjoyed the way he could actually <em>see</em> Peter’s stomach drop—but then again, if a better man wouldn’t have been where he was, as a freelance mage with two subs who adored him, Stiles wouldn’t have wanted to be that better man.  Sometimes, the high road was overrated. </p><p>It was adorable, really, the way they glanced at each other with a mutual commiseration that plainly grieved how much they both should have known the other shoe was going to drop.  Adorable, and more so to watch their differing wariness, Peter’s sudden nonchalance and Chris’ rigid spine. </p><p>“Triskelion,” Peter said.  The defiance in his eyes was utterly charming. </p><p>“Red.”  Chris’ breath drew tight in anticipation—where Peter was preparing his mind, Chris was mastering his body, his exhaustion, already considering what might be asked of him, and what he could muster to give.</p><p>Just like it always did, a softly murmured <em>good boys</em> went a long way to settling both of them.  Stiles let that sink in, just before he gave them the news.</p><p>“I have an important spell that needs to be done, and I’m going to need your help—it’s going to take some creativity, and sacrifice.  I wanted to make sure you both had a good time, because you’re good boys and this isn’t a punishment—but neither one of you is going to be coming again until the Hunter’s Moon.”</p><p>Unsurprisingly, Peter knew his full moons impeccably well. </p><p>“But that’s over five weeks away—”</p><p>“Yes, and you’ve never gone that long, I know.  For that reason, there aren’t going to be harsh punishments if you fail, and I’ll be giving you some herbs later on to help prevent wet dreams since that’s outside of your control—but if you do fail, we’re going to have to start right over, because this spell is heavy.”  Stiles met each of their eyes, in turn.  Then, he really, properly, dropped the other shoe.  “We need a lot of power built up for this one, so I’m also going to be edging you—especially you, Peter.”</p><p>“Every week?”  Peter asked.  The tightness in his voice might have been hope, or desperation. </p><p>“Every day.  At least once.”</p><p>Chris shifted on his stool, as if his balls were already aching. </p><p>Stiles reached across the island and squeezed both their hands, gentle and lingering.  “Go on.  Finish up so we can get in bed.” </p><p>Whatever apprehension they had now, it was pointless.  Like Peter had been so eager to hint at, five weeks was longer than he’d ever denied them.  They had no frame of reference for this, no concept of how it was going to feel.  Anticipation was pointless.  They’d get through, or they wouldn’t.  Either way, they’d have an experience entirely new. </p><p>It was a mark of the trust they both placed in him that they both nestled just as close on either side of him in the dark—and a mark of Peter’s spirit that he still nipped at Stiles’ shoulderblade without asking.  Under the circumstances, rather than punish him, Stiles laughed. </p><p>******</p><p>It wasn’t unbearable, at first. </p><p>It was six days before Chris properly begged him, his hands fisted in the sheets, thighs shaking with tension as his breath came hard and fast.  Stiles’ fingers brushed up the underside of his cock light as a breeze, tapping, almost tickling, right up until he heard the hitch of something that was almost a sob. </p><p>“Wait, please—please, I’m so close, please just touch my cock—”</p><p>“If I touch your cock properly, baby, you’re gonna come.  It’s too red; you’re too wet, too.  I think we’re almost done.”</p><p>“<em>Please</em>,”  Chris gasped.  The pure need of it hurt, and Stiles pressed his hand to the inside of Chris’ thigh, squeezing hard and pressing down, a firm touch to ground him with just a hint of the warmth of his magic seeping through. </p><p>“Hey, hey, I’ve got you.  I’ve got you.  I’m gonna sit right here with you while you calm down, and then we can cuddle, okay?  You’re doing so good.”</p><p>The beauty and power of the submission it took for Chris to bow and his head and accept was breathtaking.  If he hadn’t been so close, Stiles would have fucked him.  As his Dom, though, Chris always had to come first, and just then, he wouldn’t have been able to take it.  Tomorrow, he could edge Chris with his cock inside him instead, and remind him of this moment, how beautiful and precious he was, how the gifts he gave to Stiles were never taken for granted. </p><p>For the time being, he held on until Chris’ breathing evened, and his cock slowly settled.  Once it had, Stiles pulled the quilt over both of them, and soothed him with soft praise until Peter joined them, nuzzling against his collar from behind until Chris drifted off to sleep. </p><p>******</p><p>It was no surprise that for Peter, begging took longer.  Still, with such a long stretch ahead of him, it was utterly inevitable. </p><p>He was fucking Stiles when he almost lost it—it was plain first in the quiver of his arm where he held the carved branch on their headboard, his muscle jerking painfully, his hips suddenly almost still. </p><p>“Master,”  he started, and stopped. </p><p>It was, for Stiles, another indicator of how deep he’d gone.  He never asked Peter to call him Master, never required it.  It came out of him of his own accord, but only when he was so deep in subspace he was swimming in it.  It was good to have indicators, critical to know when to be extra careful.  Stiles hummed, wordless approval he knew Peter would feel where his chest pressed against Stiles’ back. </p><p>“I’m not sure I can—please.  I’m not even sure I can pull out without—please let me mark you.  It’s been so long—”</p><p>“It’s been two weeks, pup,”  Stiles murmured, low and soothing.  “I’m still yours.  I’m yours forever; that’s what this means—”  Reaching back, he rubbed the inside of his wrist along Peter’s quivering thigh, let him feel the raised curving scar left by his own teeth.  “You caught me.  I’m all yours, but you can’t come inside me right now.”</p><p>Peter’s whine was all wolf.  If he’d been able to see, Stiles was certain his eyes were gleaming. </p><p>He scratched his nails with half force down Peter’s thigh, back up to his hip.  “No.  Not now—just be still until you can pull out, then you can finger me and suck me off to finish like a good boy.  You’re my good boy, aren’t you, pup?”</p><p>His teeth skimmed over Stiles back, long and pointed, his breath hot.  The silence stretched, and Stiles didn’t worry. </p><p>“Yes, sir.  I’ll be good.” </p><p>******</p><p>One of the most critical parts of being a good Dom was ensuring all a sub’s needs were taken care of.  Balancing that without orgasms when he so often used those as part of his caretaking was difficult, but not impossible.  They both needed constructive outlets for different reasons—Chris primarily for tension and stress, Peter primarily for anger.  Without release, they’d both wind up far too tight if he didn’t use other methods to get the tension out. </p><p>With Peter kneeling on the floor and waiting his turn, Stiles held his hand out to beckon Chris to come to him.  “Come on.  Take your shirt off and drop your pants; I want you to lay down over my lap.”</p><p>Chris leaned against the doorjamb, unmoving.  It was everything Stiles could do not to smile at how very much he looked like a mule sitting back on his heels against a halter. </p><p>“You’ve been fingering me over the bench,”  Chris said.</p><p>“That’s true, and today I’m going to do it like this, and give you a spanking—and like I told you, it’s not a punishment.  This is just to help you relax.  You’re going to get your spanking, and Peter’s going to take a sound, and then I’m spending the rest of the evening taking care of my good boys.  Okay?” </p><p>From the door, Chris swallowed. </p><p>“Okay, let’s try this—why don’t you tell me which part you’re unsure about?”</p><p>“The position.”  His eyes flicked over Stiles body, from the way his thin ceremonial robe gaped open to bare his chest, to the places it had hiked up to bare his thighs.  “I’m going to want to come.”</p><p>“No offense, buddy, but you haven’t gotten off in three weeks; you wake up wanting to come.”  Stiles jab was soft, good natured.  The apprehension on Chris’ face was just too goddamn endearing.  He couldn’t help but go to him, hands hand gentle as they cupped Chris’ face, thumbs smoothing over the soft scratch of his beard before they kissed.  There was no hesitation in him, then; he kissed Stiles as readily as ever, his mouth warm and eager. </p><p>Stiles nuzzled against him, and kissed him again, until they were both breathless and Chris’ arm had wrapped around his waist, anchoring him close.  The shiver up Stiles’ spine was instant, as automatic as the hitch in his breath.  He could hardly complain, since he was still getting off, but this whole exercise was a sacrifice for him, too.  There was a reason submission and orgasm could be used to power a spell, particularly from mated pairs or groups—there was power in it.  To say that he missed taking that power into himself, feeling it resonate with his own magic, would be a vast understatement. </p><p>His nails dragged light against Chris’ scalp, up and back, a counterpoint to the flex of Chris’ hand against Stiles’ hip. </p><p>“God, you don’t know how bad I want—I want you to fuck me as hard as you want, make me come on your cock, but have you wait for me—”  Stiles nuzzled closer, his teeth snagging briefly just below Chris’ ear.  “And then lay you down over my lap and make you come while I play with your gorgeous ass.  Let you fuck between my thighs—that’s what you want, isn’t it, baby?”</p><p>“Stiles, Jesus—”  The tension in him ached; Stiles could feel the sharpness of it distilling like wine. </p><p>“I know; I know.  I want it, too.  That’s why this is a sacrifice; that’s why it works.”  The heaviness in his chest felt like notes unplayed, like branches weighed down by snow and close to cracking.  Stiles rubbed Chris’ chest all the way up to his collar, back to down almost to his cock, then stepped away.  “Come on.  Shirt and pants off; lay down on my lap.  When you’re close, just tell me you’re close.”</p><p>Even before Stiles had started working the knot plug in, Chris was rock hard against his thigh. </p><p>Stiles fingered him carefully, avoiding his prostate.  As high strung as he was, he didn’t want to tease him any more than he had to; not today.  “Remember, when we do this, it’s probably going to be better for you the day after than the night of—and I’m sorry about that, but me and Peter will both make it up to you.”</p><p>The flare of Peter’s eyes to confirm wasn’t needed, but it did settle a warmth in Stiles chest that made him smile. </p><p>“Peter’s going to be pretty out of control.  I’m going to finger you and make sure you’re as wet and ready as I can, but I can’t leave a plug in, so when he pushes in it’s going to be a shock, and he’s going to knot you pretty fast.  It’s probably going to hurt, but you’re going to be so close the pressure on your prostate makes you come anyway, just as an unavoidable biological function, and I don’t know how that’s going to feel for you—it could be really good, it could just be really strange, or it could be really uncomfortable—I want you to be prepared for that.” </p><p>“I love it when Peter knots me,”  Chris murmured, head pillowed on his arms. </p><p>From where he knelt, Peter smiled at him, half fond and half wicked.  The adoration in his eyes was unmistakable, to anyone who knew him like they did.  “I’m going to fill you so full you won’t be able to think about anything else.”</p><p>“And I know you’ll take good care of him—but you also won’t be thinking super clearly, not at first especially.  I just don’t want either one of you thinking this won’t be rough.  It’ll be good, and we can take our time with each other later, but this is gonna be a rough one.” </p><p>The training knot popped in with a wet sound, and Chris’ hips twitched, his hands suddenly fisting tight in the covers. </p><p>Stiles slapped hard over the base of the plug.  “That’s it.  He’s gonna hit you right there, but much larger, and much faster.”</p><p>Chris nodded, his back arching.  “I know.  I know; it’s okay.  I want it.”</p><p>“Of course you do,”  Stiles said.  He cupped Chris’ ass, gentle until he spanked him hard and sharp, on the curve of his cheek, then down on soft underside of his thigh.  “Because you’re my good boy.  Go ahead and feel this, and tell me when to stop.”</p><p>Stiles’s strokes were quick, sharp and hard, varying over and around the plug down to his thighs.  It wasn’t long at all before a steady stream of precome was leaking from Chris’ cock, so constant that even after Chris stopped him, Stiles could feel his cock straining. </p><p>The power was heady. </p><p>“If I so much as shifted my thigh right now, you’d come so hard all over my lap.  You’d be beautiful.”</p><p>Chris sobbed, and the tension broke.  The hot press of his cock didn’t change for several minutes, but the release of seeing something in his shoulders unwind as he cried into the bed was a relief all its own. </p><p>******</p><p>The week before the Hunter’s Moon, Peter’s restless energy had nearly reached a boiling point.  It was inevitable something would nearly tip him over—utterly unsurprising that that something was Stiles getting out of the shower. </p><p>The room was warm, humid; his scent had to be so thick Peter could taste it.  The blue gleam of his eyes showed even through the haze of the fogged mirror, his growl echoing off the tile as he pinned Stiles in against the sink.  He was shirtless; Stiles could feel the brush of skin as they breathed out of time. </p><p>“It’s too much,”  Peter murmured, low and rough.  If Stiles hadn’t known him so well, it would have just sounded like anger—but he knew Peter like the back of his hand.  Better.  He could hear the hurt.</p><p>“I know,”  Stiles said.</p><p>“You’re my <em>mate</em>.”  Peter nuzzled between his shoulders, slow and careful until his teeth bit sharp at the nape of Stiles neck, holding long enough for his jaw to flex. </p><p>Rather than flinch, Stiles moaned; he couldn’t help it.  Peter biting him there turned his legs to jelly; it always had.  It was nature, after all—a wolf held their mate by the back of their neck, to keep them pliant, and still, and taking whatever they gave them.  He was Peter’s Dom, sure, but he wasn’t immune to nature.  Neither of them were.</p><p>“I am.”  Stiles breath further fogged the mirror. </p><p>“You can’t tell me you don’t want this; I can smell it on you—”</p><p>“Of course I do—”</p><p>“It’s not right—”</p><p>“I know.  I know, it’s too much—and Peter, look at me.”  Their eyes met in the fog, little more than vague insinuations.  Peter was a shape behind him, oddly surreal and yet so solid a force he couldn’t have taken a single step back.  “I won’t take another enchantment like this one again, okay?  Not this heavy; we’ll do something else—but we’re almost there, and I know we can do this.  I know you can do this.”</p><p>“What if I don’t want to do it?  What if I—”  Peter swallowed, audibly heavy.  His chin dropped onto Stiles shoulder, face nuzzling in close until his mouth brushed just under Stiles’ ear.  “What if I want out, and I just—need to have my mates.  I feel like I’m going crazy; like someone else could challenge and I could lose you both, and it’s absolutely insane but—”</p><p>“Then tell me your safeword, and it stops.”</p><p>“Yeah, and starts over—”</p><p>“No.”  The soft, startled sound Peter made in response sounded like hurt.  Stiles shook his head, and started again.  “No, I changed my mind.  It’s too much; if either one of you can’t do it now, that’s it.  We stop, and I give my apologies to Satomi, and she can find someone else.  So if you want to stop, and make me yours right now—just say it.  Just say it; I won’t be mad.  I promise.  If you need out, we can do whatever you want, right now.”</p><p>The silence stretched so long, so tight that Stiles was on the cusp of saying it for him, bringing all the force they’d pent up to a screeching halt. </p><p>Peter shook his head, just once. </p><p>Stiles reached back to bury his fingers in his hair, petting through it with firm pressure.  “Okay.  Okay.  You’re doing so good; it’s almost over.  We’re almost there, pup.  Then me and Chris are all yours, okay?”</p><p>For a moment, Peter’s silence was so full of the press of instinct and need that Stiles second guessed himself again, just before he mastered it. </p><p>They were almost finished. </p><p>Peter sighed.  “If I use the strap on, can I fuck both of you?”</p><p>Stiles turned to kiss his forehead, the press of it lingering until Peter sighed again, more content, then, than distressed.  “Of course you can.”</p><p>******</p><p>Stiles tied Chris over a fresh patch of moss like a sacrificial calf. </p><p>He was reminded, incongruously and inescapably, of the goat from Jurassic Park—but Chris wasn’t that kind of bait, and Peter wasn’t a hungry monster, just a wolf too long denied his mates who’d finally be given the chance to run off leash, and take what was already his. </p><p>Stiles washed the lube from his hands in a small basin he’d brought with his kit, dried them before he came to crouch in front of Chris.  His head felt heavy when Stiles took it in his hands, his mouth soft when Stiles kissed him.  He was already under, as ready and eager to be of use as he was to be allowed to come.  He was beautiful, and Stiles murmured it against his hairline as he kissed down the line of his jaw, wolflike himself from years of exposure. </p><p>“You’ve been so good; I’m gonna take such good care of you.  Remember, I have to take a little blood just before and after you come, from both of you, but it’s just a little, and you don’t have to do anything.  You just focus on Peter, okay?”</p><p>Chris nodded, already drifting.  “Okay.”</p><p>“Okay.  That’s my good boy.  That’s my boy.”  Before he stood, he rubbed his thumb over the soft grey leather of Chris’ collar, down along the ridge of turquoise in the front.  It was easy and familiar, a touch that came often, and centered them both. </p><p>Neither of them had long to wait.  He’d wanted tracking the two of them this deep into the preserve to be just hard enough for Peter to add to the spell, but not hard enough to exhaust or frustrate him when he was already high strung.  A pleasant stretch for his instinct to hunt for his mates, not a sharp snap past his endurance. </p><p>He came out of the trees with all the quiet of a wraith, his movement as he pounced forward and onto Chris as smooth as a hunting cat.  He was half shifted, only the cut of his claws and teeth and the shine of his eyes to tell him apart—but he’d have a knot, still, and that would be enough. </p><p>His claws left tracks down Chris’ side—deep enough that Stiles took his first blood from there wordless, mumbling under his breath, and out of their notice.</p><p>“Blood of the prey, spilled—”  Well, dripped carefully, really, onto the moss, but it didn’t matter.  It flashed gold all the same, sharp and quick as burning magnesium. </p><p>Peter was growling, loud and low and constant, his words mutter between against Chris’ nape barely distinguished, and hardly important in any way other than intent.  Chris was his mate; any harm that came to him was incidental.  The wolf was taking care of him, and the wolf knew what he needed most. </p><p>Like Stiles had known he would, Peter thrust in with no preamble.  Chris’ cry was sharp, but his cock didn’t completely flag, and that was something.  Still, it was hard to watch him struggle, to see his back hunch as he tried to take the pace and the force, until Peter’s knot was swelling and there was nothing he could do to get away from the pressure. </p><p>Stiles stroked both of them, a hand down Peter’s back, and Chris’ arm.  “Shh, that’s it; that’s it boys.  Just let it happen, it’ll feel—”</p><p>Chris’ breath hitched, and Stiles could see rivulets of black trickling up Peter’s wrist, taking the edge off until only the pleasure was left, and Chris was shaking with it, coming hard over the moss where their blood had mingled.    Even absolutely out of his head and getting off so hard his hips were still twitching, his knot undoubtedly still swelling, Peter had taken care of Chris. </p><p>You could call it instinct, or love—love was, arguably, an instinct and science all to itself—but Stiles had never been a scientist.  He was a mage; he saw the magic.  He was biased, sure, but <em>their</em> magic was more stunning, more breathtaking than any he’d ever seen—so much that in stopping to kiss them both, he almost forgot to finish the spell. </p><p>Almost. </p><p> </p>
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